


Development of Emotion

by NeuroWriter14



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, POV Multiple, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 22:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2363966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeuroWriter14/pseuds/NeuroWriter14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes finds he's a different type of sociopath. He feels different, he knows something's changed. But what he doesn't know, is what it is or why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

Sherlock

I’m going to tell you a story. It’s not a particularly amazing story, but it’ll have to do, for now. My story isn’t action packed. My story isn’t spectacular or outlandishly fantastic. You already know all those parts.

This is a story of how a sociopath came to love. I suppose in some light that’s incredible in and of itself. This being that the definition of a sociopath is one without the ability to feel the emotions of others. 

So, I suppose this could be fascinating. But I think rather not. For me, at least, this is just normal.  
This is the story of how I fell in love with my best friend. The one person I trust more than anyone. My family who I adopted. The man I would die for, and did. And his name, is Moriarty. 

Just kidding. Wasn’t that a good attempt at a joke? What is it like in your brains not able to get the simple sense of humor.

This is how I fell in love with John Watson. Of course this won’t be as poetic as his e-mails but it’s worth a shot.


	2. The Pool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was John thinking when he had a bomb strapped to his chest? What happened after?

John  
When I first heard that voice at the pool, that deep baritone, I couldn't help but sigh in relief. Then I realized that hearing his voice meant that I did, in fact, have a bomb strapped to my chest and was about to face Sherlock with him possibly thinking I was Moriarty. I stepped out slowly and when Sherlock saw me, his expression broke me. "John?" The distraught, disbelieving look forced my eyes to the ground. His turquoise -green eyes stared at me, burning a whole in my face as I began to speak. His body was tense, taught, ready to fight. That was a stance I knew well, considering my time in the military. 

Then HE spoke. It wasn't Sherlock. It was incredibly high, an unwelcomed contrast to the deep voice I had grown accustomed to. "Ha-i." It was the strangest hi I had ever heard in my life. 

Moriarty's insanity scared me, but Sherlock's scared me more. He and Moriarty were two peas in a pod, and I'd hate to be the pod. Sherlock let Moriarty answer a phone call, he could have shot him then. Who does that? And the Moriarty started talking about skinning people. I was thoroughly convinced he was a psychopath to mirror Sherlock's sociopath.

When we finally got back to the flat that night, Sherlock and I didn't speak. He turned around and walked away, locking himself in his room. "Sherl-" I began, but the door slammed. I stumbled up to my room and fought out of my sticky, sweaty clothes. Seeing Sherlock panicked tonight, it sparked something in me. Something I couldn't understand. An intense desire to protect Sherlock. Part of him seemed so broken when he thought I was Moriarty.

I washed myself off and climbed into bed and that night I had the strangest dream of my life. 

~Sherlock was sitting in his normal chair, hands linked with his fingers steepled, pressed against his lips. He wore his silky blue robe and some type of trousers, I couldn't quite identify, and his brown slippers. I was sitting in my own chair, watching him think. His brows always furrowed when he was thinking and his bright eyes narrowed. His shaggy, curly raven colored hair dropped across his forehead in a lazy way. He looked almost boyish without his distinct cheekbones easily visible.

Then, he stood. God he was tall. How was it possible? I felt my own brow furrow. "You're staring, John." He said matter-of-factly without looking at me. I didn't answer. That's when he looked at me and I was trapped under his stare. He gave me an inquisitive look as if he couldn't read what I was thinking. 'That's a first.' I thought to myself. "John." Sherlock murmured and I was suddenly standing. "John." He said again, louder. He and I were chest to chest now, standing right up against one another. Neither of us were pulling away. 

"John." Sherlock whispered as he knelt down toward me. "Sherlock." I finally whispered back. Then his lips touched mine.~

I woke up in a cold sweat, unable to think, still gasping for breath. Did I just dream what I thought I had?

I ran a hand through my blonde hair and rested my forehead in my palms.

Oh no.


	3. Emotions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock talks about his emotions pre-fall.

Sherlock

John went upstairs and I finally let go of the breath I didn't realize I had been holding. I was scared. I don't feel emotion and I was scared. This wasn't supposed to happen. I worried that John, the man I trusted, my only friend; was Moriarty. Then I worried that John would be blown to bits by a gay psychopath. Then John could be shot. Then John could be blown up, again. John. John. John.

I had never been this selfless in my life. But I was so incredibly wrapped up in keeping John safe, I was willing to get myself shot to keep him safe. 'What's happening to me?' I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. I checked my facial expressions, posture, heart rate, eye dilation. Everything. I stomped back to my room, frustrated. John was the center of my worry. 

'What's happening to me? -SH'

'Sherlock, I was asleep.'

'Tell me what's happening to me Lestrade!-SH'

'Sherlock, I don't know. What's going on?'

'You are useless! -SH'

I threw my phone onto my bed. "Useless, useless, useless." I muttered. Running my hand through my hair, I slumped on my bed. 

I didn't sleep that night.

The next morning, John looked like he had gotten as little sleep as I had. But neither of us spoke. I found myself roaming around, bored. There was nothing to do, but John and I didn't talk. I played the violin a little, stared out the window, sat in my chair thinking. John typed on his computer, doing something. I didn't feel like deducing what.

John stood up and left and I was left to my own devices for the rest of the day. 

When John came back he had groceries. Mrs. Hudson had come up and checked on us, seeing the tension, she didn't say much, just a few cheerful words. John and I muttered responses.

There was nothing really spoken between the two of us for the next few days. Then a case came up, I solved it quickly, but my deductions brought out the John Watson I knew. "Brilliant." He would mutter. "Amazing." I could practically hear him thinking his compliments. His return to himself, brought my confidence back. The two of us settled back to normal I didn't have emotions or attempts at emotions again, for a while.

Until the Hounds that is. Again I was scared, but that I eventually figured out why. And afterward, I felt guilty. I had scared him half to death and he was having a hard time forgiving me. I focused on making coffee as he liked it. And tea. But I did it and typical John Watson forgave me.

I knew he would. He always would. Because John was John. My blogger. My best friend. My trusted flat mate. I was more dedicated to him than my own brother, though to be honest the only reason I had any connection to my stuck up brother was because of John. 

Then came the fall.


	4. During the Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened to John and Sherlock while Sherlock was "dead"?

Sherlock

I watched John, heard him ask for one more miracle. I wanted to give it to him, more than anything else in my life. I wanted him to know I was alive and that I wouldn't leave him again. He looked so broken. Never before had I seen that level of brokenness in one man, and especially not this man. Not John. Not Captain John Watson. I wanted him to know I wouldn't do this again and I wanted it desperately. But I had to keep him safe. I watched him as he walked, or more like dragged himself, away from my grave. 

"I'll give you your miracle Doctor John Watson." I muttered. "As soon as you're safe, you'll get your miracle." It was a promise I knew he wouldn't hear, but I gave it to him anyway.

For three years I tracked Moriarty's network down. I roamed all over Europe. I did help out random police forces as I went, when I was bored. But even the cases were boring and I found myself still talking to John as if he were working right next to me. My smoking habit became more and more evident because it was only those nicotine filled puffs that helped pull John out of my mind. My faithful blogger. But of course I wasn't doing this just for him. I did this for Lestrade and little Mrs. Hudson, the woman I threw a man out a window for hurting. But John...John was my biggest motivator. 

However, I hit the inevitable low point.

I was in an abandoned house with nothing but the clothes I'm had on. It was a drafty and disgusting house. The windows were shattered, flaps of cloth hit the remaining hanging glass. There were holes in the walls and the floral wall paper clung to it by threads. I was curled in the strongest corner of floor which I could find since the floor was about to collapse under each footstep.

I believed I would die there. I would never see John again. I had hit a dead in with one of Moriarty's men. I couldn't go back to John because he wouldn't be safe. And I couldn't stay tracking the ghost when I lost his trail. I lied on the ground, resolved to die. I hadn't eaten in days or slept. I was going to die, right on this cold floor.

I fell asleep.

~"Sherlock!" The voice was fuzzy in my ear. "Sherlock!" It said again, louder. Someone was shaking me. "Sherlock!" The voice was clear now. "John?" I asked blearily. I peeled my eyes open and saw my blonde blogger staring at me with worried, vibrant blue eyes. I was still in the house I fell asleep in and it rattled against the wind. "John!" I spoke again, panicked. "What are you doing here?" I stood, looking around worriedly. "Sherlock." John's voice was calm and I could feel his hand touch my upper arm. I turned to look at him and was pinned under his blazing blue eyed stare. "John." Was all I managed to mutter before he cut me off. "You have to finish, Sherlock." John's voice was overwhelmingly calm. He finally let me go from under his stare and I watched him as he went to the nearest window. "They're out there, Sherlock." John turned back to look at me. "People inspired by a madman and you," He paused, "You are the only one who can put an end to his schemes." Finally, I joined John at the window. 

"You're right." I muttered and John nods. "John," I began and he looked at me, "Are you my conscience?" A laugh lights John's eyes but before he could respond another voice cut him off, "A conscience is for the ordinary, Sherlock." Mycroft leaned on his umbrella, smug as usual. "But he is right, Sherlock." I could feel John's eyes on me with satisfaction. "Shut up." I muttered. I turned back to John and Mycroft vanished. "Sherlock." John whispered. There was a silence with John and I looking at one another. Then, he sighed, "Finish it." I watched as he walked away.

He paused for a moment without turning back to me, "I'm still waiting for my miracle, Sherlock."~

I woke up on the cold floor. "It was a dream." I muttered bitterly. It gave me a sense of purpose though. "You'll get your miracle John Watson." I promised for the second time in two years, four months, eight days, and seven hours.

John

~"Sherlock!" I yelled. His tall form fell. The dark, fluffy, curly hair moved like crazy. My pulse thrummed in my ears. Down, down, down.

People held me back from the body of my best friend. A pulse. I must feel a pulse. 'Don't be dead. Please don't be dead.'~

"Sherlock!" I sat straight up in my bed. My heart thudded like a freight train. "Why, why, why?" I demanded as I shoved my palms into my eyes, rubbing away the sleep. I stood and walked to my mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, my face pail, and my hair messy. I stroked the mustache that took me six months to grow.

"Sherlock Holmes," I mumbled, "Even dead you will be the death of me." I sighed and turned away from the mirror and walked to the dresser. "Not tonight." I spoke to the emptiness around me. "Tonight is an important one." I continued to the nothingness. I ran my fingers over the ring box on top of my dresser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More will come soon!!! Sorry the chapters are so short. But there will be a lot of them. Stick around for all the twists and turns!
> 
> Please feel free to leave comments and kudos. I welcome any and all reviews!


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